


Space Between

by kianspo



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Soul Bond, Stream of Consciousness, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: "In my reality," Spock says, "you only die once."On a mission gone awry (when has it not?) revelations follow. 1st person, Jim's POV. First time.





	Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> An un-edited stream of consciousness. I didn't have much free time, but I missed those two, that's all.

\--

The thing is, I really hate primitive tribes. I hate, hate, hate them. Not in the sense ‘we should kill them all’ hate. I hate dealing with them, is what I mean. And I know I shouldn’t be calling them primitive just because they are at a different stage of evolution compared to us. Lieutenant McGuivers reads me the riot act roughly twice a week whenever we get a pre-warp mission. She’s an anthropologist, so she gets to call them marvelous and original and she also gets to be right.

McGuivers, however, in all her infinite wisdom, isn’t currently standing tied to the stake about to have her throat cut. They cut it here with a neutronium-sharp string that makes the tiniest incision, going through everything but the spinal cord. So the prisoners get to be absolutely terrified, already knowing they are dead, yet still living – until the moment they move the slightest bit or inhale. Then, they bleed to death.

According to the Kayans, you see, killing a guest is unforgivable, but at the same time who better to sacrifice to the all-seeing Twin Gods but a couple of strangers? Enter the solution.

McGuivers doesn’t get to be a guest at this lovely party, because she’s still analyzing her data safely aboard the _Enterprise_ that is moving quickly far, far away from here. They don’t know Spock and I are missing. They won’t know until it’s way too late. 

So yeah, I really hate primitive, pardon my French, pre-warp cultures. Consider me unenlightened. 

I glance across the dais where Spock is enjoying much the same treatment. He’s not struggling against the ropes. We have both tried before and discovered there’s no room for hope there. He’s standing there calmly, observing the preparations and the gathering crowd with an indifferent air and an interest that isn’t quite scientific. 

Here’s the thing about Spock, if he wasn’t born a genius, he’d have made a really, really poor scientist. Science is effortless to him, but it’s not his true passion. He’s a man of action, our Mr. Spock, be that action physical or intellectual. Stupid people, e.g. Starfleet’s brightest, upon meeting him for the first time find him boring and sort of grim. They find Sulu more dangerous and Chekov more interesting.

They are probably blind, deaf, and completely insensitive in every other way, because you’d have to be all of these things not to feel the aura of tightly coiled power emanating from the guy. I mean, Jesus. Just standing next to him makes your skin tickle with electricity that is so cold it’s scorching. 

Okay, maybe the last part is just me. Bones would be smirking at me right now, because the man knows the way I’m wired only too well. Seriously, you sit one time next to a guy who threatens to throw up on you in a shuttle and somehow he knows what makes you tick better than you do for the rest of your life. Speaking of... 

I look at whatever passes for town square here where the chieftain has lifted his arms, all four of them, calling for silence. That guy really pisses me off. When we first arrived – and that was _not_ my fault this time that we blew our cover – he greeted us with open arms and ordered to prepare a welcome for ‘the travelers from the stars.’ Ah yes, I should explain. The Klingons have used the planet as their pit-stop for about two centuries now, so the Kayans, while remaining remarkably primitive – I mean Bronze-age, damn you, McGuivers, – have long become accustomed to visitors.

I don’t know that I believed the chieftain when he promised us hospitality. I know Spock didn’t either. This trust in peaceful resolutions is just too difficult a thing for us both, I think. Spock isn’t the trusting type. I wish I could say he was like that since Nero, but I’m pretty sure his trust issues come from way before then. Childhood has a way of fucking us all up, and, from what I’ve heard, his wasn’t a picnic.

Me? I’ve learned to be street-smart the first time Frank kicked me out when I was eleven. He apologized later when Mom came back and made him, but by then I’d been hitchhiking across the entire continent of North America for seven months and no one had caught me. Frank wasn’t actually a bad guy. He just wasn’t what you’d call salt of the earth, if you get my meaning. Just an average kind of asshole who threw stones at puppies for fun.

My point is, we didn’t trust our feathered four-armed hosts, but we are Starfleet officers, and Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom, actually orders you to ignore your instincts. Cultures are too different, they say. Background, rituals, body language, facial expressions are too different. Don’t judge everyone based on your human experience. And it’s not like it’s bad advice, but in my four years on the _Enterprise_ I discovered that some things are pretty universal. Like the instant tightness in my stomach or Spock’s sudden stillness that is different from his usual stillness.

I look over at him again across the distance between us. He’s listening to the chieftain, bless him. Probably still looking for a way out. Spock wouldn’t be Spock if he wasn’t. I should be looking for a way out, too, and I will be, in a moment, even if it does feel kind of hopeless, but right now I just – don’t.

I look at Spock instead. He’s just so very… Spock. I’ve seen him mad with rage – God, have I ever, cold with contempt, deeply sad to the point of weeping. Oh yes, he wept for me, how about that? I’ve seen his eyes crinkle with humor and go soft when something touched his heart. I’ve seen him high on alien pollen and openly spellbound like a child, mind still in endless wonder. 

I’ve never seen him not being himself. There are very few constants in the universe, and, to me, Spock is one of them. Even going through the widest range of emotions he claims he doesn’t have, he remains the same. He grows, he evolves, and remains. I can’t put it into words any better. He’s Spock. He’s always Spock. And I always—

Oh, well. 

The fact that my eyes tend to rest on Spock every once in a while is a good thing, no matter what Bones is saying. Right now, for example, it allows me to notice that one of the guards flanking Spock is sort of… twitching. As if something has crawled down his ear and he’s trying to shake it out without breaking his ceremonial posture. Spock isn’t looking at the chieftain anymore; his head is bowed in what looks like surrender. A few of the spectators notice and laugh. Spock pays them no heed. The guard twitches some more and then suddenly goes still.

Little known fact about our illustrious Mr. Spock: he’s one of the strongest telepaths of his generation. They test kids on Vulcan, and his readings were, apparently, off the chart, which is why the masters of Gol had been after him with a fiery passion of a thousand suns. Unfortunately for them, they chose the wrong sales pitch. Instead of telling him about the extent of his potential and appealing to his sense of responsibility, they told him he needed to suppress his shameful, stinky, unruly human side. They might not have used the same words, but that was the gist of it. I’m fairly certain the subject of his mother came up. It’s truly shocking then that Spock chose to decline the honor. Seriously, sometimes I think that the galaxy is populated by idiots, and some of them even have pointy ears.

Bones started suspecting something after the first few scans he’d run on Spock, and of course wanted to pursue it further. Spock shot him down as though the man was badmouthing his mother. At the time, that was probably how he interpreted it, as another slant to his heritage, especially since Bones couldn’t come up with anything concrete and kept grasping in the dark.

I knew Bones was right after a few missions where things just didn’t add up. Spock was still playing the denial game, trying to convince himself more than us, I imagine. I would gladly crown him the king of denial, but Bones would laugh in my face. It’s a tie for the first place, I think.

Eventually, it took us taxiing a Betazoid diplomat for Spock to finally face the full extent of it and stop trying to suppress it as though it were an embarrassing STD. I didn’t like Leanna Troi one bit. The woman could see me inside and out and kept smirking every time Spock and I were in the room together. I wanted to strangle her really badly, but after she’d left I wanted to send her flowers. Somehow, she succeeded where all of us had failed. It was more seeing her being so natural with her gift, rather than any specific conversation, I think, to finally make it click for him. 

He started exploring instead of suppressing. He even graced me with a full explanation one memorable night, which is when I learned about the Gol thing and the rest of it. It’s interesting with Spock how he can go from minus twenty to a hundred in the blink of an eye. When things make sense to him, they just make sense, no adjustment period required. ‘You can tell Doctor McCoy,’ he added, which for him was the highest form of acceptance.

I look at the guard again, and he’s slowly inching toward Spock’s stake. Spock is still looking down, concentrating, but I don’t need his signal to know that my time has come. Sometimes I think that my entire job description as captain is to be the master of diversions. 

“Hey, Chief!” I yell, drawing all eyes toward me.

He whirls at me. “You dare speak, star scum?”

Huh. What happened to ‘honored star travelers’? Right, not a mystery.

“Yes, I dare speak.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the guard inching closer still toward Spock. The second one is remarkably still… Good God, he’s holding both of them at once. “I have a question for you.”

“You dare—” He starts moving toward me.

“How many of those hands of yours does it take to pull your head out of your ass?” I yell and brace for impact. 

The fireworks as the club of the nearest guard connects with my jaw are spectacular. I enjoy the view as I spit out blood. 

“Hey, this one has a good one,” I pant. “Maybe you can ask him to help you pull—”

His partner smashes his club into my belly and if it wasn’t for the ropes I’d have curled into myself, howling. He adds two more for emphasis, and the first one joins in. human ribs are actually pretty sturdy stuff. I can _hear_ them breaking. I can’t see Spock anymore, just a blurry image, but it looks to me that that blur is moving.

“Is this why you worship Twin Gods? Because it takes all eight hands to—”

The blow is on the head this time, and I don’t know why I don’t pass out. Maybe he was too angry to aim properly. Blood is in my eyes now, but the roar I hear isn’t coming from the agonizing pulsing in my head. The chieftain and the priest are facing off with the angry crowd now. The Kayans are screaming for my death, but if they kill me now, they’ll have to pick one of their own number to be sacrificed.

Just as I’m about to go deaf, my vision clears suddenly as though a sheer has been lifted, and I see. Spock’s stake is empty, two bodies lie motionless on the ground. He dropped them without much tenderness, but they’re both breathing. I start laughing then, the adrenaline making me battle-high. Nobody spares me a glance, and wow, it’s like a superpower being able to incite a riot with just a few words.

‘You have a gift for provoking people,’ Spock has told me once. Well, sadly, he would know.

I almost miss the moment when my own guards drop down, and that’s when I realize I am free. I step forward, swaying, which is when, of course, the Kayans finally catch up to what’s been going on. 

Spock jumps in front of me, and there was a time when I’d be mad about that, but I have learned since. Telling him not to do that is like telling a thunderstorm that’s already whipping the ground not to come. I have also long since abandoned the illusion that he protects me because I’m his captain. Oh, he’d have done the exact same thing if it were anyone else here instead of me, because that’s just how Spock is. That’s how I am, too, which is why I get it so very well. It’s more than that for me when it’s him I’m protecting. I tried to deny it for a very long time, but I’ve long since made my peace with it.

It’s more than that for him, too, when it’s me he’s pushing out of harm’s way.

I don’t think this ‘more’ is quite the same for us, but I don’t mind. Whatever that ‘extra’ is that drives him still makes my blood sing.

The first four guards that have mistakenly believed to possess an advantage in the form of their weapons go flying, four arms and clubs and all, before anyone can even see what has happened. This is child’s play to Spock, because the crowd is big but disorganized; they have no idea how to attack a single target and end up hindering each other instead of helping. 

My body, mind, my entire being demands that I jump in next to him, cover his back, be the shield to his sword, which is how we practiced it so many times. It hurt my pride when we began, but I’m not as arrogant as people would believe, and that’s the simple truth of it. Spock is faster than me. He’s also a lot stronger. And there is something extremely galvanizing in the way he _trusts_ me to protect him, letting go of the need to defend himself completely and focusing on the attack. The first time we tested it on an actual mission, I got so high on it I was afraid I couldn’t function. It was liberating and empowering, the way he’d just give it to me, as though he didn’t have any doubts in my abilities, as though it was my right. Leanna Troi would have probably stopped smirking.

My body is screaming at me to get in there, but I’m a lot wiser now than I used to be. I’m injured and will be a liability and distraction for him. Spock knows this too, and trusts me not to do this. He can hold them for a while, and I need to get us out of here. 

I bend down to grab a knife from one of the guards and nearly topple over, sharp pain from the abdomen tearing me in half. Broken ribs. Fuck, the guy can hit. I pull the knife out and stagger away, clutching at my belly. The knife is shit, the bronze blade too dull by far by our standards, but it’s better than nothing. There’s a huge reservoir with some dark tar-like liquid just above the dais. The sacrifice isn’t complete without the bodies being swallowed by the sacred fire.

My ribs scream and I cough up a lot of blood, but I get to the top of the platform, hauling myself up with my arms. At least something is still working. My belly that felt like it was on fire just seconds ago is now numb with cold, which can’t be a good sign. The shouts from the square are becoming louder. I must hurry. Spock is a martial arts master, but there are just too many of them, and he’d spent himself already grabbing control of those two guards. Sooner or later the crowd will simply roll over him.

Gritting my teeth, I start cutting the ropes, holding the gigantic bowl up. God knows how they fill it, because it’s unfeasible that they can lift it up already full. Damn pre-warp cultures and their dull blades. Next time, McGuivers, you’re going into the field.

When the rope is just about to give, I roll back, releasing a yelp of pain as my ribs hit the roof of the temple. Spock will hear and be ready. At least that’s what I’m hoping for as I lash out and cut the last strand.

More shouts, cries of horror, as the huge bowl upends down, the heavy liquid smashing everything in its path, including the ceremonial torches… A blink and the entire square is on fire. Screaming, the Kayans abandon the fight and hurry to get out of the way. Some succeed. Some don’t. I try not to listen. Lifting my eyes toward the sky, I blink through the smoke and try to inhale. It would be so nice to just let go, but my body is in agony. I feel like I’m burning, and I need to move. I have no idea what awaits me on the other side of the building, but I have no choice – I have no strength left to look for alternate routes. Sometimes lack of certainty is bliss, I tell myself as I roll down the slanting rooftop, squeezing my eyes shut because the smoke stings like acid.

The fall lasts only a split second before I smash into somebody and we go rolling onto the ground. The fat priest, the one who advised his chieftain to sacrifice us. He yelps and wriggles as I come on top, trying to kick me off and landing an elbow in my abdomen. I feel like being swallowed whole by lava, everything goes red and white-hot, and I don’t know if I scream.

The next thing I know is a firm hand gripping my arm. I know that hand. I would sooner forget my own name than fail to recognize its touch. Spock hauls me up, and this time I do yell. His shoulder props me up, instant support, solid and reliable; his free hand turns my face toward his. He’s probably gentle, but everything in my universe hurts way too much right now. You’d think I’d get used to it.

“Jim, look at me,” he says, and I do. I’d respond to this voice from the grave if I had to. 

He looks like a demon. There’s a deep gash across his right temple, and his hair is a mess. The whites of his eyes are covered in bright green cobwebs.

“May I?” this insane creature asks, breath cool against my burning face.

As though I could deny him anything. I nod anyway. 

He touches my temple gently and whispers, “Sleep.”

I obey before I fall, a heavy, dead weight, into his arms.

\--

I could say one thing about Kaya, the dawn here is beautiful. I watch the twin suns rise in tandem over the mountaintops and experience a rare moment of absolute peace. No thoughts intrude as I gaze, spellbound, at the radiant, brilliant miracle before me. I am suddenly intensely grateful that I can still feel this. There was a time when I thought nothing could touch me anymore. Did I mention Spock and I had to share that first place in the denial race? Yeah.

Speak of the devil. Spock appears soundlessly and sits next to where I’m propped up – very carefully – against a log. He’s also watching the sunrise. He looks better now. The gash on his forehead has stopped bleeding, and his eyes look clearer now. His blue shirt is gone, and the black one is glued to him in certain spots in a way that I really don’t like, held in place by dried blood.

“Did you meditate?” I ask.

He nods a bit absently, still gazing at the suns. What does he see, I wonder, and then randomly remember that Vulcan used to have two moons. Right.

“So,” I start just to say something, “how long do you think before McGuivers figures it out?”

If he were human, he would have shrugged. That’s the impression I read off of him anyway.

“We are not due for a check in for two more standard days. Lieutenant McGuivers is not prone to intuitive leaps.”

He says that with no particular expression, but somehow I get the feeling I’ll be signing transfer papers really soon. 

“It’s not her fault,” I say.

It's definitely not her fault that I'm here in any case. A better captain than me would have followed the away mission protocols. A more dutiful first officer would have insisted. But I've never been a by-the-book kind of guy, and Spock is nobody's paragon of virtue, not when it comes to Starfleet certainly. We're not brazen or anything, but the rule on the _Enterprise_ is, if he goes, I go. If I go, he goes. The occasions when this rule is broken are few and far in between, only when things get so dire that there is no one else to do what either of us can. Spock has stopped questioning it pretty early on, and by now no one else does either. Well, Bones brings it up sometimes, but mostly he does it for kicks. Spock was heading down by default, so of course I was going. Didn't even get an eyeroll from Uhura or lifted eyebrows from Sulu. There's a very good chance that one of these days one of us is going to buy it, and then the rest of them will have to sort it out with the brass. It's a shitty thing to do to your crew, but it's just one of those things. They get it. I don't get it myself sometimes, but they do.

So yeah, definitely not McGuivers's fault. 

“No indeed.”

He turns to look at me then. Instead of asking the question, he simply reaches for my wrist, finds the pulse point, and listens intently for a few moments, eyes half-closed. He’s tired, I realize. Exhausted even. The telepathy, the fight, and then the ten kilometer hike through the mountains while carrying his unconscious captain. That would wear anyone down, even Spock.

He releases my wrist, and then asks, “How are you feeling?”

I’m human and I would have shrugged, except I remember how well that went the last time. 

“Not too bad, considering,” I reply, and it’s not a lie. Everything is relative.

He nods, lifts my shirt, and carefully lays a hand over my abdomen. I wince, I can’t help it. My belly is pulsing with something very hot and very sharp. We both know what that means.

I shake my head, as he pulls back, because this is just too damn unfair. “Did they have duranium in those clubs? Few freaking blows, Jesus…”

“Perhaps next time you will think of some other way to create a diversion.”

I thank him with a nod for that ‘next time’ and grin. “Aw, but this one’s been working out so well. I’ve got it down to an art form now.”

“Mr. Chekov has an interesting expression for an occasion such as this. He calls it ‘hammering in nails with a microscope.’”

“Come, come, Mr. Spock. Since when do you resort to flattery?”

“You know exceedingly well that I do not.”

No, but sometimes I think he indulges me. I have no idea why he does that. Maybe it seems funny to him, seeing me bloom against my will under his praise. Maybe it was part of his ‘How To Handle Fragile Humans With Care’ training.

We drift into silence. He’s given me some water already, and food is out of the question. I don’t ask if he’s had any, because he knows how to take care of himself. He also knows that we both need him to survive.

The day passes quietly. Spock comes and goes a few times, but it’s only once that he’s absent for more than an hour. I don’t ask and he doesn’t volunteer what he’s been up to. Days are short on Kaya. Four of them will pass before the _Enterprise_ comes in range. They will try to raise us and, when they get no response, they will divert at once to our last known location. Too bad Spock is going to be the only one to meet them.

My temperature rises as the second sun begins to set. I start shaking violently because I’m cold, but I know I’m feverish. Spock starts a fire despite the possibility of being discovered. It’s probably low, but still. He wouldn’t have if he were alone.

I can’t get warm. Then of course I can’t get cold. It’s excruciating, and I’m beginning to dream about the numbing stillness of a stasis chamber. Spock makes me drink something that is both bitter and astringent, and I very nearly tell him to go fuck himself, or maybe I do, I’m not sure, but he’s persistent. I finish the entire nutshell he fashioned into a cup and then I pass out.

\--

I don’t get to see the sunrise again, but by next sunset I’m still alive. Spock doesn’t leave anymore, and I kind of feel him there, alert, and watchful, and very quiet. The fire is small but still going strong. I squint at it in my saner moments and it looks to me like the stone itself is burning. An interesting place to die.

“You are not going to die, Jim,” he says as though he heard me.

“Is this a prediction or do you know something I don’t?”

He gazes at me thoughtfully, the fire crackling softly between us. In the end, he says quietly, “I know this.”

Right. What am I supposed to do with that?

“It’s okay if I do, though,” I joke. “I’ve done it before.”

Something closes in his face, and he looks away, lips tightening. “I wish you’d stop—” He cuts himself off. 

Vulcans don’t ‘wish,’ and I got him to use a contraction. Jesus. I really am an asshole.

“I do not find the subject humorous,” he says in the end.

I look at the tense line of his shoulders. His entire silhouette seems brittle suddenly. Touch and it will break apart. Part of me, the selfish bastard part, wants to do it just to see him shatter. The rest of me wants to hold him together with my own hands if I have to. Spock, Spock, my proud, stoic friend. Did I finally push you one time too many?

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly like a peace offering.

His upper back lifts in some indistinct, wave-like movement, like a cat shaking off the rain in disgust.

“You are generally callous when it comes to this, but you seem to find perverse pleasure in tormenting me specifically,” he says. “Why is that, Jim?”

I’m momentarily stunned. “What? I’m not – I’m—” I flail. “Look, I’m not doing it on purpose, but we both know I’m bleeding internally. That concoction you made was absolutely vile and I’m pretty sure it destroyed my taste buds, except I can still taste blood in my mouth. The _Enterprise_ won’t get here in time. I’m all for positive thinking, but at some point we all have to face reality.”

“Reality,” Spock says, “is subject to the mind.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. You will me to live then.”

He looks at me. I notice with a start that the fire is not reflected in his eyes. 

“I have been doing that since the moment you became injured,” he says, quiet and firm. “I do not intend to stop. In my reality, you only die once. And you have done it once already. I will not allow the second time.”

I shiver, and it’s not the fever. “Spock,” I say, my voice hoarse. “This – almost sounds like a love confession.”

He doesn’t look away. “Take it as you will. I do not see the need to dress this in ornamental words. But if you wish to hear them—”

“No.” I shake my head hastily. God. “No.”

He’s a puzzle. An enigma wrapped in riddle wrapped in mystery. It would have been crystal clear with anyone else, but with him I still don’t know. What was it that he has just told me? Was that really a lover confessing to his object or a knight swearing loyalty to his king? Who can tell with Spock? And if I can’t, who can?

I open my mouth to apologize, although really, it’s futile. I’m a bastard. Spock knows this. It’s not like I can say sorry for the way I am. But whatever I was going to say remains there, because this is when pain gets me. My universe explodes in waves of purple and red, and I feel fire in my chest and the sensation of acid trickling out of my ears. 

It recedes gradually. Not completely, it can’t be extinguished, but it becomes bearable. I open my eyes to find Spock kneeling next to me, his hand on my neck touching skin, his face a mask of extreme concentration.

Ah.

“I don’t deserve you,” I push out, my voice weak, cracking.

He blinks, coming back. His eyes are green with blood.

“No indeed,” he says. He doesn’t sound any better. “Even for you, I’m too much of a punishment. But what is, is.”

He looks down to the point where – oh. His free hand is interlaced with mine. Did I reach for him? Did he reach for me? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

“Not what I meant,” I breathe out. “You know.”

He squeezes my fingers. “I know. Rest, Jim.”

I rest.

\--

I don’t know if Spock has literally willed me to live. I wouldn’t put it past him, since he’s the most determined son-of-a-bitch I have ever known, and I know Bones. Bones, who doesn’t even yell at me this time after I resurface. The _Enterprise_ had come a day early. Random variation of chance had operated in our favor.

I have a status report from Spock waiting for me in my cabin when I arrive and an updated analysis of the Kayan culture from McGuivers. Out of curiosity, I scroll through it. _‘Worthy of further study’_ is her conclusion. For a moment, I am sorely tempted to assign her to the damn planet. Permanently. She does a good job on the data, though, and I can see a series of articles in _Galactic Ethnography_ already. Perhaps even a monograph. I turn the PADD off and head out.

Spock’s door knows me and lets me in. He looks up as I enter.

“Captain,” he says, rising from behind his desk. His eyes scan me from head to toe. He relaxes marginally. “It is agreeable to see you in good health.”

“Right, the thing is,” I say, walking toward him as though he hasn’t spoken. “The thing is, I’m a dick. I know it’s not a surprise after four years, but here it is anyway. You know this, because you know me better than anyone in the whole damn universe. So I won’t say thank you for what you did down there. And I won’t tell you not to do it again.”

He folds his arms over his chest, listening.

“I want more though. This, whatever we have, is amazing and noble and pure, and I love it. But I’m not noble, and I’m certainly not pure, and I won’t lie to you or pretend or whatever. You deserve the truth, so here it is. I want you. In every way imaginable. And I want you to know that before you decide to do whatever it is you did on the planet all over again.”

He’s silent for a moment, as though waiting to see if there’s anything else. Alas, no. What’s out there is already plenty.

“Jim,” he says, and I know. Before he gets the rest of the words out, I already _know_. “I have never been ‘noble’ with you either. And as for purity—”

I step closer, pull him in by the neck, and kiss him. He is surprised for a mere second, and then strong arms come around me, and I fall into him, into the dark, exhilarating space where everything is Spock, and nothing is pain, struggle, or fear.

He presses the words he doesn’t say into my skin and he worships me, fresh bruises over old wounds, healing, fading, melting away. I push into his body with no finesse or tenderness because between the desperate want and suffocating need there’s no room for anything else. I could no sooner love him than I could love myself, and he’s not the person to teach me that, I don’t think. Except maybe he is, because his mind slips effortlessly into mine, and he’s not asking for permission, he just _knows_ it to be his to take, just as I know I can lose myself in his body.

I can’t get enough, I never will, no matter how readily he offers, but the answering pull is just as strong, and it makes me feel better. If he’s as out of control as I am, then it can’t be that bad, has to be all right. And it makes so much sense now why no one has ever questioned us, why it’s never been an issue. The ‘not-us’ has never been a possibility. The ‘us’ is the only thing that’s ever been out there, natural as breathing, obvious to everyone, and my crew isn’t made of fools. I can reach out and touch; I can reach out and take him. And God knows, I don’t have a lot to give, but if he wants anything – anything at all, he can have it, any time he wants, he can eat my soul for breakfast, I don’t care. I can’t fall in love with him, but I can do this.

Reality is what you make it, comes in a whisper.

Well, maybe someday. I will try for him. He’s the only person I will try it for. Is that not the same thing, he asks. Maybe. I don’t know. Does your father have a shotgun? He is laughing at me in my own head, and I feel bliss.

\--

McGuivers gets promoted and is transferred to Starbase 5. I want to give her a replica of a Kayan ceremonial club as a parting gift, but Spock tells me no. Spock tells me no a hell of a lot these days, but everyone says it’s always been this way and I simply hadn’t noticed. 

They’ve taken it in stride, our change in status. God knows how they even figured it out. Spock looks at me like he’s regretting the whole thing when I ask him, so I let it go. We’re breaking the rules rather violently with this, but nobody cares.

These days I’m enjoying his telepathic overflow and flashes of mental insight. He’s no more prone to utter the B-word than I am the L-word, but somehow neither seems necessary. His father does not own a shotgun, he informs me, and I schedule a visit to New Vulcan at some point in the future. We don’t have to, Spock says, and I say yes. 

I say yes to him a hell of a lot lately, but everyone says it has always been this way and I simply hadn’t noticed.

\--


End file.
